Un-fucking-fortunately for me.
I would ask what the odds are of us running into each other yet again, but with us both living near campus, I guess they’re not as slim as I’d hoped for.
It’s eight o’clock on a Friday night, andthisis when she chooses to do her grocery shopping?
I’m surprised she’s not out partying or going to a bar with her friends.
What most college kids are doing with their weekends.
What she was doing when we first met.
I watch as an older woman at the end of the aisle drops a plastic bag, and a dozen green apples roll in ten different directions. And there Maisie goes… rushing over.
Her smile is radiant, transforming her expression as she tells the little old lady she’ll get it and bends over, quickly gathering the apples and replacing them in a new bag for her.
I fight the urge to groan out loud at the sight of her ass in those damn blue jean shorts she’s wearing. Are they the same ones from the night at the bar?
I can’t tell from this far away, but the frayed hem stops just beneath the curve of her ass, making her legs look endless, smooth and soft. Always on display every time I see her in short, frilly dresses and skirts.
Always fucking tempting me.
I grab a random can off the shelf and put it into the basket I’m carrying, not even bothering to look at what I’m grabbing because I’m staring at her like an idiot.
Tonight, she’s got her hair twisted into some type of braid that hangs down her back, wearing a loose yellow tank top with thin straps that’s flowy around her chest and formfitting around her narrow waist.
She’s stunning. I’ve never denied that.
If anything, it only makes staying away from her that much harder.
It would be easy if I weren’t attracted to her, if I didn’t want to touch her, to taste her, run my lips over every inch of exposed skin.
It would make it easy as fuck to resist temptation if she weren’tsofucking tempting.
She lifts on the tips of her toes to grab something off the highest shelf, and of course, since she’s all of five feet tall, she can’t reach.
I sigh.
A deep, ragged one that does nothing to help the unease unfurling in my chest.
Walk the fuck away. Stay the fuck away.
Turn around and walk back down the aisle and pretend that you never saw her here tonight.
You’re not a knight in shining armor. She can get someone else to get it down for her.
That’s what I’m telling myself, but yet, my legs are carrying me over, clearly not caught up with my brain.
I stop behind her and reach above her, plucking the jar of pickles off the shelf.
She whips around, that blinding, too-pretty smile already curving her lips as she turns to thank me, but then it falls upon realizing it’s me that did it.
Her eyes widen, confusion furrowing the space between her brows. “W-wilder?” She yanks a headphone out of her ear, blinking up at me.
“Coach Hawthorne,” I correct her.
It seems so damn stupid, continuing to force her into calling me that, but it’s a way to keep the wall up between us. To keep things professional, where they need to be and where they’re going to stay.
“Coach,” she says, dropping the jar into her already overflowing basket. “What are you doing here?”
